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<title>Wish by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23218972">Wish</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield'>Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, not my typical dean winchester, sepia-toned angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:56:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23218972</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You want it to be love -- but it isn’t. You want him -- but you can’t have him. So you don’t want anything.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Dreamer/gifts">Impala_Dreamer</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for @impala-dreamer‘s “Make Me Feel It” challenge with the song prompt Gravity by Sarah Bareilles.</p><p>Many thanks to marksmanfem fangirlxwritesx67 and briarr for existing, sharing, and giving this particular piece of self-indulgence a read-through.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p>
    
  </p>
  <p>The crowd bustles with booze and hormones and weed. We watch the world go by from inside our bubble, bright and glistening. These people -- they have no idea what it feels like to love him -- to be loved by him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But Dean doesn’t <em>really</em> love me and I don’t <em>really</em> love him. We’re just two lost souls swimming in a temporary fishbowl of indulgence and elation.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I hook two fingers into his belt loop without a thought. My heartbeat vibrates my skin and I swing my gaze up to meet his.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Found your spot, huh?” he speaks softly, his voice misting over me through the din.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He smirks and his eyes twinkle like peridot in the midnight rain as he lightly clasps a few of his fingers around my wrist, turning into me.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So possessive,” he says, playfully scolding as he wedges a knee between my thighs. “Makin’ a claim.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>My back’s against the wall when he dips in to kiss me, it’s deliberate, precarious, on the surface but 20,000 leagues deep -- and it’s fleeting.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean could kiss me for a day non-stop and it’d feel like a fraction of a second.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When he’s done, he steps away, leaves me raw and bereft against the wall.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the door as he shoves his hands in his pockets and trots down the stairs to the street.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I descend behind him like a lead balloon.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s so smooth and he moves so easy, but I can never catch up to him. I’ll never be able to hold him or keep him. He’ll never be <em>mine</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He takes me home, to my house. He locks my door behind him. When he turns to me, he smiles and he slides his fingers into my hair. He kisses me and calls me sweetheart.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Every touch is weighted, elevated. Every word...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Fuck, you smell good</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>You like that?</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Like my hands on you?</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>So soft</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>So wet, princess</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>So tight</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Can you take me?</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Fucking come</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Come for me</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>
      <em>For you -- just you</em>
    </strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>God, he knows just what to do.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I think I’ve pulled myself up to stand on my own. I think I can say no -- and I do say no, to a lot of people -- but then there he is again. And he’s standing there, like a ghost or a lie.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s winning and frightening and ruining.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s like that liquor that your best friend bought last Christmas. The one with the gold flecks in it, that’s 80 proof and tastes like candy. When you drink it, you feel like flying -- can’t stop flying. Then the morning after, when it’s all gone, you’re thick sugar, dehydrated, strung out and vomiting. And it lasts for days.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Oh, but when he’s there...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Drink?” he asks, rolling from my bed and stepping into his jeans.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Those legs, those hips...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah,” I answer, my voice hoarse from exertion and calling his name.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He disappears from my room and I close my eyes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He never asks. We just... drift toward each another. We end up together, sweaty and guilty and a stain I can’t remove.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’ll fade, sure, but...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>... I don’t even know his last name.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Here you go,” he says, handing me a beer and taking a swig of his own, as he settles on the edge of my bed to fit his watch to his wrist then scoops his socks from the floor.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I watch the same turn of events that I see every time, 15 minutes after he finally comes -- jeans, watch, socks and boots.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Those dirty, heavy boots, steel-toed and sturdy, beautifully worn. I wonder where those boots have been.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Was good seein’ ya?” he says, dropping his booted foot flat to the floor and shooting me a sideways glance, a small smlie. “Thanks for the beer.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sure,” I answer, rolling to my side. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I use the tip of my middle finger to trail his lower spine, as I inhale.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I won’t wash my sheets for another week at least.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean pauses, reaches for my hand and brings it to his mouth. “Gotta go,” he whispers, brushing his tongue-damped lips over my knuckles, draining me dry. “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He stands and crosses the room for his shirts and jacket, shrugging them on one by one.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>T-shirt, flannel, leather...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I let my eyes close. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Be safe, Dean.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His boots shuffle my bare wood floor and his jacket rustles crisp in the air.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Always am,” he answers. “You too.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And then he’s gone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I’m left precious, and used, just the way he always leaves me.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
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